The Red Notebook
by californiatart
Summary: WWII AU. An Italian partisan and his grandson were caught sheltering Jews in their own home. They were then deported to Auschwitz to work under the German Nazi as slaves.
1. Work Will Make You Free

**_Warning_**: This story has disturbing content and themes not suitable for people with a weak heart, so please do keep that in mind while reading. This is your chance to run away.

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**Chapter 1**

Arbeit Macht Frei – Work Will Make You Free

_When the reign of Benito Amilcare Andrea Mussolini ended, come the German's surge of uproar vengeance against its own Axis's ally, Italy. Civilians of Italian's descendent who were at present in German's land were spun into slaves for forced labor by their Axis's partner. From September, 1943 to April, 1944, around twenty-three thousands of Italy's soldiers from the previous war and ten thousand resistance members were transported to German's land in trains. They were told to work with odd jobs as "temporary worker" in German's camps. When the year 1944 came, there were over five hundred thousand Italy's civilians "employed" by German Nazi._

…

September in Rome is, supposedly, one of the most beautiful times of the year. The sapphire sky in buoyant blues, the transparent clouds in wispy whites, and the sweltering sun in yearning yellows; from behind the blockage of the metal bar wires stood life, freedom, and liberty spouting in harmony. There is a boy, a young boy with golden brown eyes, standing behind these bar wires. Around him are people clumped together, their persons' bodily odor, the smell of decaying urination, the rotting blood, it was atrocious and unbearable. But worst of all; nobody was talking, nobody was smiling, nobody was happy. His stomach rumbled, stridently. And, he's starving.

He turned to the older man besides him and says, "Grandpa Roma, I'm scared."

"Everything will be alright, Feliciano. I'm here, just stay close to me and listen to whatever I told… Promise me?" The man whispered, only enough for his grandson to hear, he latches onto his small hand and squeezed them snugly.

"… Yes, I will and I promised you, grandpa..." He answered, inaudibly. He nibbles his desiccated lower lip.

Feliciano could remember everything so clearly like it was just yesterday. He and his grandfather were just celebrating another night of victory of justice and freedom for not only the Jews, but for themselves as righteous Italians, because they knew what they were doing is right, for sovereignty, for free will. Grandpa Roma was an important supporter of Giustizia e Libertà, and Feliciano is helping out here and there with the Nazi's whereabouts and their next inspection. For some reason, a bad chance of luck strikes, someone had reported them of harboring runaway Jews in their home… and then, Feliciano and his grandfather were caught immediately. Like a flash coming from a light bulb. At that time, Feliciano was so confused, because it happened so fast, so unpredictably, in the middle of the night no less. He remembered of the loud banging noises, then the door was forcefully opened, and then, there were soldiers yelling things in German at him and his grandfather.

Feliciano did not understand a thing they were saying. But he could make out one word.

"…_Auschwitz… Auschwitz… Auschwitz…"_

The camp site for Jews and resisting civilians.

For many days, the scenery behind these metal bar wires kept on changing and changing. From his familiar city home and neighbor, passes Italy's borderline, through a small glimpse of the Berlin Wall, then to Auschwitz, purportedly, to Feliciano's assumption, the train's final destination. As the train's wheels kept on rolling and rolling, in the distant front, from the other side of these metal bar wires, standing tall is a humongous building, so high it could probably touched the blue sky above. This building looks like one of those expensive high-end private schools that Feliciano could never afford to go to. The maroon colored "building" is actually a sort of gateway, leading to somewhere. In the middle of the building, under the watch tower, a giant iron wall begins to uncover itself slowly for the incoming train. Animated and festal music were being played in the background to welcome the arriving guests.

The train ends its wheels in front of the tall tower, with ever increasing in length at close proximity. In an instant, swiftly and orderly, the German soldiers and their guns commanded the Jews and other captives to quickly grab their small belongings and get off board. As soon as the full cargos are emptied out again, the train took off. The group was then gathered in a circle, with the German soldiers around them. The soldiers told the people to get inside the tall gate, quietly, and then the captives did what was being told to them. Feliciano hold onto his grandfather's hand as he walked inside with him.

Inside the front gate are clusters of small brick houses, the setting was peacefully monotonous and calm, the air was dry and arid. A huge sign made of steel caught Feliciano's interest, "Arbeit Macht Frei." said in bold black words. The walls surrounding the smaller houses, have bar wired encircled them; they have spikes stick out at the end, it was just like a deadly rose garden. When the group stops at a spot near the bar wired fence, there was a German soldier. His uniform was covered in badges, probably someone of higher rank than others. The men behind him were standing in an arranged manner and upon spotting the coming captives, they bit them a salute.

"Welcome to Auschwitz!'' The man and his comrades cheered.

The man in front of the mysterious group of soldiers' steps forward, he was a large intimidating man, his eyes were beaming with a strange laugh. With a huge grim grin on his cheesier cat face he turns to face the captives.

First he would speak in Yiddish for the Jews, then in Italian, and then in Polish for extra measure. "Hello and welcomed to camp Birkenau, my dear friends! As you all know, you were imported here to work for us, for just a wee while. The more you work, the less time you will have to stay in here. We are working on a_ very_ important project right now and we needed as much help as we can from you, my fellow friends. Now, please separate your group, the men on the right, women on the left!" After his speech, the captives begin to dispatch themself by their gender with guns pointed at their way. They were order to line up in a straight line, the children, women, old, and sick were told to walk into a wooden barrack far way up south. When friends and families begin to separate; outburst of cries proceeds to fog the thick air. A gun shot shoots up in the air, demanding hush from the captives.

With the rest remains, they were asks, "What can you do?" by the man with the cat face.

"I'm a shoemaker; I can make a nice pair of shoes from scratch," A person would answered.

Then the next, "I'm a blacksmith, I can bend metals!"

Then, the next one, which happened to be Grandpa Roma, "I'm a doctor, I can heal people!"

Then, comes Feliciano. He panic, but his grandfather gave him a stern, solemn look. _Just make up something useful, anything. _The young boy stuttered, too frightened out of his mind at the rush of the moment and shoots a jet stream of random things he can think of. "I'm a very good cook, and I can clean, and I can mend clothes, and…"

The German soldier raised his hand, asking for total obedience. "That is enough. Next."

The ones who seems strong, capable, mostly men, or could do specific work, would then, go into another building. There were no cries this time around. Feliciano had a hard time keeping up with this strange welcoming ceremony. His eyes are wide in confusion, scared of what to do because he only knew how to cook, have afternoon naps, and flirt with pretty girls. Inside a building that looks like an oil factory, Feliciano's and Grandpa Roma's group are then being enlisted and recorded into papers, tattooed with numbers on their wrists, stripped naked, delousing in powder, had their person's bodily hair get shave off completely, and then be washed by the raining showerheads above, all the while their attires were sterilized with a odd, smelly gas.

Feliciano looked at his left wrist. _Number 46071_. Then, to his grandfather's, Number 46070.

"_Remember this, Feliciano, no matter what happens or the circumstances; you must obey and show some manners to these German soldiers. Got it?"_ Grandpa Roma quietly whispered to his grandson while standing in the shower.

Feliciano could only nod in return, "I will, grandpa."

Once the shower bath ended, the captives were given clothes that were less nice than the ones they had on before and a pair of badly mended shoes. The captives are then told to line up again, with a German soldier upfront, he begins to ascribe the people to different stations and quarters based on their mentioned specialty. Grandpa Roma was assigned to the medical building, Feliciano, on the other end, was told to follow an older German soldier standing behind the cheesier cat faced man from earlier.

"It isn't it a good thing for you, Italian? That Commander Beilschmidt happened to need a slave. Make sure you take good care of our leader, alright? Don't make us look bad or we'll have you sent to the gas chamber, you understand, my young friend?" Said the man leading the way.

Feliciano didn't know what the older soldier was saying, so, he just replies with, "Yes sir, I understand," in German.

Upon reaching Feliciano's assigned barrack, the soldier knocks on the door three times. Once the entry undid, the smell of… expensive lavender penetrates deeply through Feliciano's nose. He had to close his eyes for a moment to savor the sweet scent. Once the young boy's eyes are wide opened again, a Nazi German flag bagged his attention; it was place on the wall all the way at the end. The ruby red background stood for the social life, the white circle represents the people's united mind, and the swastika in the center symbolize German overwhelming power over the Jews. Under the proudly displayed flag is one of their leader aspirational quotes:

_"Germany wants to either be a world power or will not be at all."_ - Adolf Hitler.

The left and right walls were adorned with silver trophies and metals... Feliciano looked forth, there is a man sitting on top of a table and he was scripting down something into a red notebook. The man stopped what he was writing, gazes up, and stares intensely at the soldier and the Italian next to him. His cerulean eyes were aloof and detached, like two blocks of blue ice. He seemed uninterested and continued on writing.

The older soldier bit him a salute. "Commander Beilschmidt, I am only here to drop off your new slave." Then, he quickly dismissed himself as he knows how busy his leader is.

And, then, there is just the two of them, Feliciano and his new… he doesn't even know how to address the man. He bows politely, speaking in Italian. He needs to stay calm, be polite, and eased these strange Germans, just like what he had promised with Grandpa Roma. "Hello, sir… _Commander Bell-Mitch?_ My name is Feliciano Vargas and I guessed I will be working for you from now on... So, if you need me for anything, please don't hesitate to tell me."_ If he wanted to get out of here fast, he had to work._

'_I hoped grandpa's doing alright so far…'_ Feliciano thought to himself.

The man remained on silence as his blue eyes are on his notebook. _Maybe, he doesn't understand Italian? _Feliciano then tries to speak in German, but it was in vain as he only knew so little… maybe Polish? Spanish? It doesn't seem to work either... _Could it be that he's also deaf?_

Feliciano step forth a few steps, but still keep a personal space between them, and pointed at his ears and shakes his head… maybe, he'll understand sign language. Si? No?

Then, suddenly, Feliciano's stomach growled really loud, it echoed off of the vast walls and into his eardrums like a car's starting engine.

_I'm hungry._

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_**Author's Note**_: Hello friends, as of right now, I'm planning to do a "Book Series" because WWII always fascinate me. Of course, you don't have to read other 'books' series in order to understand anything because they haven't been posted yet, except for The Yellow Journal. Ciao~ Wish me luck! :)


	2. Murderer of Christ

_**Chapter 2**_

-Jews are Murderer of Christ-

_The Jews are responsible for the execution of Jesus, son of God. They were held liable by the great Gospel for this episode, the damned ones who causes suffering for others all over the world. Beliefs had held that, in an instant, after this case comes into light, hate and repulsion exploded all over Europe as discriminations and exterminations of Jews begin, the reign of terror. These "punishments" comprised of the First Crusade in 1096, the removal of all Jews from Great Britain in the year 1290, the Spanish-Inquisition, the exclusion from Spain's land in 1492 and Portugal in 1497, and, lastly, the Holocaust, these incidents were the reflections of detestation against Jews, which was conducted and executed by Christian's church under the great Lord and the united minds of His Children._

.

A voice, _"I can speak Italian."_

It was spoken so sternly, so firmly, so intransigently, that Feliciano's shoulder had jolted a bit too high under the authoritative impact. Somehow, he had felt alarmed, threatened, defeated under those few vocalized words. His round ginger orbs showed frightful disinclination, afraid even, of this new person entering into his little, tiny bubble. The man in Feliciano's eyes stopped scripting verses into his red notebook; his blue eyes are now on the Italian boy, flicked through over him as if he is reading a story, Feliciano's entire life even… And that, somehow, terrified him the most. The sound of seconds' ticking-tock by on the clock dangling on the wall feels like Feliciano is trapped inside a blizzard. The room was sprightly warm indeed, but it was in cold quietness given the small amount of time he'd been here. This titanic cosmos of a room is more like an abandoned asylum for the mentally ill. Of course, Feliciano wouldn't dare to say that out loud for the man to hear.

The Italian boy nervously glances up to the man and down to the floor again. Feliciano noticed that this blue eyed man, afore him, is garbed in the same uniform as the other German soldiers, the ones that he had met so far that is… Black, boxy suit, with a strange swastika ensemble on his upper right arm, baggy pants, and weird laced up boots… However, this,_ 'Commander Bell-Mitch'_, is, in a way, outfitted in a more fancier, sophisticated, classy manner, maybe it's because he carried himself contrarily? Maybe it is because of the gold and silvers brooches on his outer jacket? But a lot of German soldiers here also have the same pins and badges on their clothes, too. Who knows, but he is definitely different alright.

_His eyes are scary. Huh._

Feliciano senses the vivid atmosphere around the man, just barely for someone like himself, and decided to stamp his lips skintight together. Whenever Grandpa is livid with madness at him, the silence distance between the two had always smoothed out his sightless rage. _Ouch_. His gut begins to hurt a bit. The food the scary German soldiers gave his group, captured partisans and runaway Jews, is barely anything fulfilling; it melts like air inside his deep tunneled belly. Grandpa Roma had to practically fight other people in order to get food for himself and Feliciano. His tummy rumbles again, even louder than before. Feliciano's face blushed wholly; he hasn't eaten until he is at his fullest for the whole week now. Feliciano misses the days were he lazily eats away homemade foods, which consisted of mostly delectable pasta dipped in red tomato sauce, by Grandpa Roma, had long, satisfying afternoon naps, and confined himself within pretty girls' world. He had nothing to worry or care about except for skimming for incoming terrifying German's armed forces in his neighborhood every once in a couple of day's light and darkness.

Throughout the day, Feliciano's job was pretty simple so far. Other people, German soldiers and the ones with tattooed numbers on their wrists like his, would come and clean the man's room. Feliciano joins in also since the creepy Germans stood with their guns high and pointed and gave him funny looks. After that, he would then follow the group to carry back hot potato soup, fresh beer, and baked bread for the commander.

"Do you need anything else, Commander Bell-Mitch?" Feliciano asked, in his native tongue, once the foods are placed in front of the man.

The man stares at him and raises his eyebrows, but shook his head nevertheless. Feliciano watched him eat with great curiosity, without his red notebook and pen and all, and all the while, he wonders if the soup is good or not. His Adam's apple gulped loudly when the soup touches the man's lips. _It must have been wonderful, smell's nice too_. After the commander's meal ended, Feliciano take the emptied dishes back to the kitchen hall, only to have other prisoner to clean them spotless. His back, of course, are escorted by soldiers standing outside of the commander's room. His trifling journey was also terrifying, Germans, they're everywhere. Blonde hair, blue eyes, huge built, and guns, after guns, after guns, upstretched tall and alarmed. Eyes, in blues, cobalts, ceruleans, saphires, straggled after his tiny footsteps like a camera taking a three –sixty angled pictures at his person. Feliciano kelp his head down and hurried back to the room with the man; he may be quiet, but he is less intimidating than these white soldiers. Only when the commander's doors are opened that the terrifying soldiers stopped following him.

Once returned from his trip, the small Italian stood in one place, aside to the right, for the extensively elongated hours and hours to come; he was entombed under a never-ending spell almost. The blue eyed man sat in one place, face and hands never left the red notebook as he effortlessly presses words into the snow white sheets under. He never looks tired with all of those intense writing movements. Every once in a while, men, dressed in bulky black uniform like his would come in, either whispered something to the man's ears or gave him piles and piles of pamphlets and brochures. He would either nod his head or made a sound of acknowledgement.

And then, the commander would speak for the second time that day, "Jews. To have a drop of blood of a Jew, then he is a Jew. Whether it is his parents, then he is half a Jew; or his blood is from his grandparents, he is still a Jew regardless. They are all the same." The men before him would salute and marched away with grave and uninviting expressions on their pale, alabaster faces. Feliciano persist quietness, these words… they are the true words from a Nazi. Even though Feliciano could barely understand German, he had grasped and comprehended the word "Jews". It was spoken in a way with tasteless distrust and tackles misguidance, he is not that dense to simply ignored such a tone referring to somebody. He knew so well, that these Germans hated the Jews so much, that to the point where they are brainwashed, basically. He wanted to say something, anything, one word… but what? While all of these things are happening around him, Feliciano's intestines would be roaring and rumbling the whole time. His head feels groggy, his plank twin legs wobbly, and vision hazy. He couldn't move a muscle, he was weak, he was scared, he was a partisan, let alone resisting these soldiers; his death would be so swift and quick. Like a dust petal.

'_I'm so hungry_.' Feliciano thought to himself, helplessly, covering his lower abdominal with his two able hands. His body hopped a little as he accidentally made eye contact with the man. He wishes all of these intruding noises from him would be gone away, it is very uncomfortable and obstinate, and he wanted to make himself look tough on first sight with this German… So far, he seems more and more like a pitiful hamster than a fearsome partisan. Feliciano takes in a deep gasp of air, raises his chest, chestnut eyes shown defiance, but only for a short period of time before he got tired of standing so straight.

Night have finally arises as the moon's florescent in soft yellow and stars in silver diamonds. Feliciano closes all of the windows and their blinds. He helped the commander to his bedroom, which connected to this work room through a door in the right corner. The Italian positioned himself in one spot as the man unwinds himself out of his uniform and into his sleep garment. He opens his hands wide for heavy clothes to be thrown at his direction. The man set himself onto his comfortable bed, leaving Feliciano by his own to put away his clothes in the closet. When the illuminations from light bulbs are finally out, leaving only the moon peaked over a thin cleft of an open window for a bit of radiance, for the alone Italian. He walked toward the light and sat his person down in a moonlit corner. Something had caught Feliciano's eyesight in the light. There, on the commander's table, far away from his bed… are loafs and loafs of tasty bread in many divergent tins of browns, russets, and auburns.

"You can have some," Said a voice so quiet in the darkness.

Feliciano got up and stridden his two feet over to the table, so quietly, scared to break the calm stillness. The Italian boy would gulp and swallowed in the ever so soft pasty bread with greed, as if this is his last supper, as if he had never seen edible food before, as if he was an unrestrained feline. Tears spilled out of his eyeballs like a running waterfall. He felt joy, delight, pleasure as the white scraps and brown rubbles of bread disappears inside his mouth. The noises from his stomach no longer made embarrassing sounds, his head is subdued again, knees no longer weak and fragile, and vision is crystal clear and bright. Feliciano could see all of the nice furniture, the nice trophies, and the nice decoration around him in the dark. The commander's room is really nice.

After his meal ended, Feliciano's two dazing eyes are then unresponsive and shut tight, leaving him unconscious in his little corner with the moon's light glowing on his shadow.

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_See you somewhere next week, or so!_ :)


	3. Lower Race

**_Chapter 3:_**

_Jews are of Lower Race_

_Blue eyes, blonde hair, white skin. In common theories, Adolf Hitler considered "Germans", those who were born with specific features to be of higher class; they are ones that are most closest to God and should be entitled power and authority by birth alone. Other races or ethnicities such as Jews, Gypsies, Aryans; those that were born different should not be titled to having such rights and supremacies. This is a sense of unification, amalgamation, association, for the country of Germany. The term 'lebensraum' becomes a social norm, which means, more living space for Germans simply because they are born to rule and are more superior, therefore, blessed to live in luxuries, "God's Children" in other words._

…

Feliciano had heard tiny, little bits and pieces of stories and tales from the other world, the underground part of being a partisan. Of how the Germans could only know of killing, bloodshed, and their own satisfaction. Of course, there are times he did not believe such things, he would shrugged and laughed it off, thinking it was the silliest things in his small bubble. Right now, before his eyes, there are many people, being deported on and off cargos like ragdolls. There are prisoners, like himself, were tied to a post and had their bodies whipped, mercilessly. Here and there, a random pistol would escape from a gun like a firework sparkle. There are actual human beings; being rape openly, cursed and yelled at, unchained hungry dogs running around wildly; like a performance, a show, a circus. This mad world eerily reminds him of Alice in Wonderland, of a fairytale, of a myth, of a pastime story in a book.

Feliciano is walking behind Commander Bell-Mitch with head held low and body contorted against the ground. In his hands are mountains and mountains of cluttered paperwork's and scrappily pamphlets. The tall German commander and his red notebook and pen are out in the open. With pale skin so white, golden blonde hair so intensely yellow, and sapphire eyes so light like the circled blue skyline above. The words from his writing utensil keep on incessantly escapes from the black tip and into the white pages of the red notebook.

And then, all of the sudden, from nowhere, Feliciano's brown orbs were met the red eyed man. The commander's… relative, probably, maybe. He looked just like him. Excluding for the fact that he was so flamboyantly lurid, boisterously energetic, and exuberantly animated. In his left hand, is a grey notepad, just like Commander Bell-Mitch's, but much smaller, pocket-sized even; and he would read the words out loud while writing them down.

The red eyed man would then opened his own mouth so wide and teeth were so sharp like a man-eating mermaid, "I hate being in charge like you, Ludwig. I like killing Jews and shits." In German, again, the word 'hate' and 'Jews' was used dementedly in a sentence together.

Behind the red eyed man stood many prisoners, there is one particular person who stood out most. _Purple eyes_. Like fresh spring flowers, like blossoming buds, like Orchids. He was a prisoner, just like Feliciano's. Though, he looks like a prince in waiting to rescue his princess.

"This one's from Austria. Inmate Number… ah, I can't red upside down, anyway, didn't matter; he's a pretty little thing aren't he? Doesn't his expressions begged to be break?" The German man mused upon seeing Feliciano's brown orbs on the purple eyed prisoner. Feliciano keep quiet and avert his scared orbs for eyes on the ground, however, he could sense the commander rolling his blue eyes at the man.

"Gilbert, show some self-control," Are the only words Commander Bell-Mitch said to the other man.

This red eyed man… _He's terrifying_. Like a red plague of deaths. His words sounds innocence, but his actions are impure. Feliciano peep up and could see him, pointing his guns at the prisoners, shooting at the mass in casual directions while smiling innocuously optimistic so. Even his ominous laugh of a child, like a jeer from a cobra, "Kesesese!"

Feliciano was glad that his laugh is no longer a haunting presence, but rather, it echoed off in the distant as the commander before him had set sight on another location. Along the way, however, tells a different story, on his left, he saw German soldiers binding prisoner's wrists firmly and them would dangling them on poles under the blazing sun. Some inmates would have the skin of their backs peeled away by black barbed wired sticks. To his right, hanging prisoners on poles would be forcefully released from their straps with their face pointed down into a hole of shiny objects. Whenever someone loses consciousness from the practice, they are rudely awakened by grey water and tied onto the pole again for the second time. Under the immense heat, everything had looked like a mirage.

Their next destination is, presumably, a doctor's office, of sort. The walls are crystal white, even patients, mostly children, dressed in bleached silver garments. This place is like a snow garden. The people, the nurses, the doctors, are all very cheery for some reason, and they had all had that healthy glow around them. Feliciano spotted Grandpa Roma stitching up bandages on some patients in a small room; he had wanted to call out for his grandfather. Grandpa Roma notices his grandson and gave him a startling look, as if to tell him to keep words from fleeing away his open mouth. Feliciano's feet jumped a bit, the soldiers around him suddenly had their cautious blue eyes on him. He lowered his head; brown orbs keep still, and continue following the Commander Bell-Mitch's footsteps. After a while of traveling around the white building, Feliciano beheld over the piles and piles of papers and books in his hands and briefly glances at the commander walking in front of him. This time around, there was no pen or red notebook in his hands. Rather, his blue eyes are searching for something.

A man approach Feliciano and the commander, he was garbed in a business suite. A trench coat, a hat, and a suitcase on him, like a gentleman, he bows and takes off his black cap in front of Commander Bell-Mitch. The man in the suit introduces himself as, "Josef Mengele, a house doctor." So simple and clear that Feliciano had understood his German. Commander Bell-Mitch then went on and said a long line of dialogues in German, so complicated, complex, and difficult, that Feliciano had lost track of any languages in his tiny, little head. Both the commander and the man in the black suit had spoken to each other for many times to pass, so much, that Feliciano could've taken many naps in that one session alone.

Lastly, their final stop is the red barrack sequestered on a deserted area up a small hill. Just like its color, it was named 'The Little Red House'. There is a white building under construction just a few walks away. The metal gate of the red barrack before Feliciano's and the commander's opens; he could feel his heart beat picks up… the smell alone, is nauseating… it smells of chicken's burnt flesh. A cloudy smog blind hit his eyes. Like a string snapping from a guitar, his heart cacophony in tentative dread. Feliciano could see people, German soldiers, running around in the hazed mist, and impotent inmates, in blacks, greys, and purples, on cargos being cast out like filthy used rats. And, then, when the cloudy smog evaporated into the air, Feliciano, standing behind the commander, was confronted with another unexpected sight. Naked, in pinks, olives, nudes; prisoners were stripped bare, there are bones lines shown on their backs, ribs, hands, and feet's. They are standing in a single line, waiting by a building. After the gate of the building unravels their selves, inmates are cogently thrust into the building. And then, when the gate locks with a rasping sound, red, orange, and yellow ignites from within the building into the open blue sky. Little firefly ashes springing from the light inside of the building are like a flower opening its petals. The bare naked prisoners all clutch their hands together, praying quietly to themselves, and German soldiers' stands in one place, snickering and bickering.

Anybody who manage to gust out from the line would either be bitten by the hungry dogs from earlier or were shot and thrown on cargos, joining the rest in the burning building… like a crematory, a gravesite, a hell for the living flesh and blood. It was the most unsettling, revolting, stomach-churning thing that Feliciano had ever seen in his entire young life. He looks down at his feet, immovable in one place and quivering viciously. The commander before him had on a serene, slight, composed expression as his red notebook vulnerably open and pen exposed in his hands. Feliciano had felt like watching a calm riverbed by a forest fire, except the blue water never reached the red burning fire.

Feliciano had stood there for the longest of time, of many time wasted; prompting, evocative, recapping him of the days were he did practically naught sleeping, eating, and flirting with girls. He stood there. And did nothing. Nothing to ease their pain. Nothing for comfort. Nothing to help.

The commander and Feliciano return to his room after that faraway, farfetched dream. The Italian boy would return to his spot like yesterday, to the side, waiting for orders from the commander. The blue eyed German man would say next to nothing, only wanted meals and water here or there or over, and the rest of the time is himself and his red notebook. Time passes, seconds crawling by, minutes skulking by, hours creeping by. Feliciano had on an unmitigated appearance, withered brown eyes, lips decolorized to white sea foams, face peroxided of bright, lively expressions.

The commander glances up from his red notebook and asks, nonchalantly and dispassionate, "Are you scared, Italian?"

"… Yes." Feliciano impressively whispered; his hands are dead cold in the midst of the hottest hour of the day.

"Why are you scared?" The commander asked indifferently, his right hand started to move the immobilized pen across the white pages of his red notebook.

"… Because… because, I could not do a thing… I'm useless…" The Italian answered, honestly.

The commander blinked once, stopping his moving pen for a second, "Do you want to die; to end it all, this madness, this suffering, this illusion?"

"… No." Feliciano was frightened, afraid, and fearful, of what is to come to him. He is terrified of death, of what is to come in the darkness, what happens at the dead end of an elaborated tunnel.

"Then, why are you scared?" The commandant ruminated, not expecting an answer.

The Italian boy spoke quietly, to himself, "Because, I live..."

When the night approaches, Feliciano, again, helped the commander into his sleep clothes and put away unimportant documents for him. He looked over, and surely enough, once again, a basket filled with bread, sweet bread this time around, for himself. Feliciano ate in silent and then walked back to a corner, the same exact spot from yesterday, to rest his distressing eyes and shocked mind. Feliciano was dazed, traumatized, beyond his wildest dreams, to say the least. He sat and stayed quiet in his little corner and observed the moon behind the window. He couldn't do anything to help these prisoners, his hands are free but his will is imprisoned. That night, Feliciano had shed another tear, not for himself, but for the prisoners. There are neither silver stars nor white moon behind the small crack of the window, and Feliciano had felt restrained, isolated, trapped. He felt tiny, like a sand grain in a big universe. Feliciano had found out something today... inside the red notebook… are nothing but numbers of dead Jews and resistance members.

Then, everything, the man sleeping on the bed, the nice furniture, the bread basket, was oblique in unforeseen darkness before Feliciano's blank eyes.

* * *

_To be continue. :)_


	4. The Great Depression of 1929

_**Chapter 4**: _

_T__he Jews are to be Blamed for The Great Depression of 1929_

_October 29th, 1929, otherwise known as 'Black Tuesday', it was one of the darkest times for Germany. The stock market hit a slump and plummeted abruptly; forcing over six million people to be jobless in matter of just a few days, worst yet, virtually every city were hit by this disastrous epidemic. This single event alone let to The Great Depression of 1929. Throughout this collapse, the Jews' economy and commercial affairs were going well for them. This manifestation before them had made the people of German becomes angry and doubtful of the Jews. Not only that, the deleterious persuasions and distrust-filled public speeches by Adolf Hitler delivered the motivation, a push, to this impression that the Jews stole their happiness and riches. The people of Germany begin to believe this 'idea', this notion, that, those sneaky Jews are solely accountable for this recession and they lived off of their happiness and riches from the depression._

…

The story of Alice in Wonderland goes that Alice simply followed the cute White Rabbit, gone through an exciting adventure with him, and then be roused awake by her beautiful sister smiling down on her. But, no, this is no fairytale. Because, deep down, Feliciano knew of darker stories, deeper secrets, the ones that parents hide from their children, the ones he dreadfully tries to avoid… truth is, the world above is _ugly_. Feign virtue and purity is quite easy for him, less stress, more fun, and free of care; Feliciano had decided it is much more peaceful to close his eyes against the horrid things and focused more on lovelier, modest things. Like flowers and kittens, they're pretty and harmless. Not the unpleasant tales where people life's and joy solely depended on the misery of others.

An atypical white light flared against Feliciano's face. He opened his brown eyes against such concentrated light, it was unnervingly to be staring at such intensity, such peculiar light… it had reminded him of the people sagging on the poles, the shiny silver objects inside the holes, the white, drool-covered teeth of the hungry dogs. This is a first time for him to dread of a spectacular, magnificent morning. When the world of today comes bursting into his small bubble, Feliciano felt sick, to his stomach, to his veins.

Feliciano takes in a breath. There are tiny bubbles of goose bumps scarred on his skin. He could feel black ants heaving all over his blood vessels, liver, and heart. Here he is, behind a door of an infirmary sanctuary, swarming with little children standing around with broken limps. Outside of this room, are teeming with German soldiers, just like a bee hive. The doctor from yesterday, Josef Mengele, would change the children's eye color by inoculating peculiar substances into their pupil, other time he would sever their appendages, and then some other times, he would surgically remove their beating kidney, without sleeping gas, he would then had their unconscious bodies dissected. These children… they are treated merely like plastic dolls. Feliciano spins his wandering eyes around; he could see nothing but abandoned white faces of the children. His nostril is festered with the smell of rotted meat. He licked his lips; he could taste their flesh on him. He rubbed his hands together; he could feel their blood on his hands. His ears twitched… and he could hear nothing but painful cries and wails from them. Grandpa Roma stood next to Josef Mengele with a bland look as he helped dismembering the small bodies with the doctor. Feliciano could only close his eyes.

Once done inspecting the infirmary, Commander Bell-Mitch and his red notebook took off to the distant land with Feliciano trailing behind him. The Italian and his roving eyes scan in circles briefly. There are prisoners in black cuffs and grey shackles with German soldiers encircling them. Feliciano looked down over his entire body. He is different. He was spared from the injection of chains on his body simply because he is Commander Bell-Mitch's… follower? Slave? Butler? He did not know the right word to describe this 'job'. As he shadows the commander to this place that look dreadfully unfamiliar, his heart beat becomes uneven and unnerving. He slants his head up and made eye contact with the sky above, verminous with grey smokes and smog.

It was a Monday morning.

Feliciano had a difficult time following the man in front of him because his eyes are hazed with the fog. When the thick, dim, grey fog fades, there… in this new place, stood a tiny man, the man with the cheesier cat face from the other day, watching over the dark hole beneath his feet. His arms were crossed in front of his chest as he carefully observes the moving prisoners inside the dark abyss, green eyes scanning there and over like a telescope. Looking at the sky above him, the man pointed his gun against the burning sun and pulls the trigger.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Get out!" His thriving, booming voice ordered.

All of the prisoners that were digging inside the dark dirt hole halt their strenuous activity and follows the man's demand. When the sunlight hits the group of people, they faces were greys and greens with lifelessness. They are well-broken in, with broken eyes and poorly dressed in rags. The prisoners didn't seem to care what they looked like as they barely manage to drag their feet out of the hole. Their starve form could be seen through their rip clothes. Following them are soldiers neatly dressed in uniforms with the red and black swastika on their upper arms. A prisoner, hoary with age, was struggling to get to the surface. Upon seeming his useless body, one of the soldiers came over and pushes him back into the dark hole. The blonde German raises his gun and gave him several bullets to silent him. Other prisoners look at the scene with disinterest. This is their everyday life after all. The group of prisoners with the German soldiers pointing guns at them stands under the blazing sun for what seems like hours. Then, after a while, another group of soldiers appears with metal boxes in their arms and with another hoard of prisoners, bare in nakedness this time.

Bang!

"Get under there, you filths!" The tiny man's detestable voice demands of the newly arrived group of prisoners.

The bare prisoners did what they are told. On the other end, the German soldiers singled themself out into an open pathway; their black guns pointed at the prisoners. The inmates saunter passes the combatants with their head down. They went straight into the dark hole in a single orderly line with their dutiful eyes and stilled lips. The cat for a face man told his comrades to gathers around him to give out specific orders. He told them what he wanted them to do to the prisoners with detailed, step-by-step instructions, unnervingly quiet in their circle. The soldiers stood in front and around him salute their right hand straight over their head, understood his orders and retreat to their designated spot. The group of intimidating men went after the prisoners inside the hole. Once inside, the soldiers each get a prisoner of their own and line up against the dirt wall with their captive.

A soldier calmly walk to the middle inside the hole and lit up the gas lamp in his hand for his comrade to see better in the dark walls beneath. After the light ignites, in synch, the Germans put metal boxes next to them. They begin to slit their prisoner's ears, noses, fingers, eyes, legs, arms, and hands using varies weapons inside their metal boxes. By the looks of things so far, around twenty children between the ages of four and sixteen had been nailed to the walls and their youthful bodies butchered.

The man on top of the hole continues his predator's glaze. Coming to a stop, he spotted a young soldier struggling with his prisoner. The man calmly guides himself into the dark hole, then approaches the hesitant soldier, his pointed hands rests behind his back. Like a cat. His footsteps were light and quick. He sneered upon smelling the stench of decaying rotten flesh around his surroundings. Coming to a stop behind the short Finnish soldier, he tilts his head to a side.

The short man quietly whisper into the blonde's ear, "Either you kill these lowlife mongrels or I shall kill your family in front of you... Do you understand me, Tino Väinämöinen?"

The soldier widened his eyes in retaliation, thinking of his young brothers and sisters at home. Looking at the ground, the soldier hastily replies in a soft timid voice, "Yes, Captain Zwingli."

"Good." The tiny yet intimidating man patted him on his shoulder and dismisses himself.

"Make sure you do it slowly." His poisoned voice echoed as the darkness slowly consumed his small, daunting form.

The young man bit his lips and continues on his task beforehand. He breathe in deeply, closing his eyes and opens them, and took a large pin inside the box next to him. He places the sharp object against the child's left foot, takes the hammer in his pocket, and nailed it in place. The kid started struggling and begins crying as the second pin embedded inside his right foot. On the opposite end, behind the young Finnish soldier, is the boy's mother. She started crying alongside with her child's voice as she herself, was pinned against the wall just like her child.

Feliciano blinked, once, slowly, as he continues watching the scene with a strange fascination. Every once in a while, the young man would briefly glances at the taller soldier beside him with his wide, troubling innocence eyes. The man returns his gaze but did not utter a single comfort word of recognition. The smaller man bit his lips painfully, his eyes begins to get watery. His hands begin shaking when a third pin pierces through the child's right arm. Feliciano jump slightly, he could feel the sharp pin on himself. A good long thirty minutes passed, the final pin is in place. The young child was unconscious at this point.

After the soldiers were done with the tortures to the prisoners, they would douse the basement and the people in flammable gasoline. Once the task is finish, the soldiers all climb out of the hole quickly and calmly.

Another soldier walks to the cliff end of the hole and lighted a torch on fire and threw it inside. Several men follow the soldier's action, and pretty soon, a large body of fire ignite from the inside of the dark hole. Again, just like a blooming flower. Screams and shrieks begin to blanket the air; a grey fog clouded the clear sky once again. There were gasps and coughs of prisoners, in severe agony and nuisance. Their once dead eyes become alive with fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of death. Feliciano finally closes his eyes, hoping this dreadful melody will soon awaken him from this frightful dream.

The prisoners that were digging the hole earlier didn't respond to the other inmate's cries. Their blank stares never once fade or flicker. Instead, they just stood in their place and drift off to their own thought. Their own little happy little bubble. This is a Monday after all.

"My men, stand with your back straight and eyes wide opens! The Bolshevists and Jews brutally murdered twelve thousands of our brothers and sisters in their homeland using the same method; we are only returning the favors!" The proud Captain Zwingli standing on top of the hole declared. Some of the German soldiers, with their gleeful sharp eyes begin open fire in directions that had voices belong to the prisoners below.

"We hereby shall give our gratitude to our Führer that he let us witness this so-call Bolshevist's "paradise." We, as united brothers, swear to distinguish this madness and impure contempt against our people and protect our bright future." The small man continues on and on in his prosperous voice, never once was there a hint of neither hesitation nor compassion for the burning prisoners before him.

"Seig Heil, Führer Hitler!" The man raise his hand and salute over his head, the other soldiers around him mimic his action. "Seig Heil, Führer Hitler! Seig Heil, Führer Hitler! Seig Heil, Führer Hitler!"

... Then, there was silent. Once the voices inside the dark hole stop altogether, the soldiers went back inside the hole. They retreat their pins from the burnt flesh of the prisoners and looks for gold in their grey, decaying teeth. And while all of these things are happening, Commander Bell-Mitch stands aloof to the side with Feliciano behind his back. This is fascinatingly real. It had felt like toxic being vaccinated into Feliciano. After done some sightseeing, done with words imprinted inside his red notebook, the commander retreats his shadow. Feliciano follow suit behind his tail.

Some trivial time of walking passes, to the commander's left, there, on the exact same spot from yesterday, is the red eyed man and the school of prisoners on his back. This time, the prisoners are playing music with shiny, elegant instruments in their own hands, while having the red eyed man shoots his gun in unsystematic directions like a music director of an orchestra band. The red eyed man, being distracted by his own gun fires, did not notice the prisoner from Austria comes in contact with Feliciano. The prisoner bumps into the boy, so gracefully quietly, and whispered calmly, _"You… I know you. We met before."_

_This sophisticated voice._

Feliciano's brown orbs enlarged, coming into recognition, this purple eyed prisoner… His name is… _Roderich Edelstein_… a Jewish runaway. Many years ago, he had stayed in Feliciano's home for a teensy while, maybe half a day before disappearing into the night like a rodent. The Italian turns around, but the prisoner is gone.

Later that day, Feliciano finds himself wounds up in the room with Commander Bell-Mitch and his ever interesting red notebook on display. These hours of isolation is his requiem of contentment as there are no bloodcurdling German soldiers and deserted faces of prisoners. Today, there were no interruptions to the commander and his moving pen on top of his red notebook. It was just Feliciano and Commander Bell-Mitch himself. The seconds passing inside the clock on the wall had felt like a reassuring melody to the Italian as he stood in his quiet, little corner. The commander afore him had on a blank, inert facial expression; his usual façade. Composed and still like the sky; motionless and frozen like the river.

Feliciano leisurely tilt his head to the side. "… Sir, you…" He started out, but quickly hushed himself.

"_You don't feel anything?"_

Why did he felt a need to ask him? Of course, this man, this Commander Bell-Mitch… he is just like any other German. Germans who hated the Jews, just like everybody else; but pliably and openly.

"Why don't I feel anything, correct?" The commander ripostes for Feliciano. He leans back apathetically and slants his blue eyes.

"Why not?" He proposed. Feliciano could not answer such a question.

Night somehow came; the inaudible song inside on the clock on the wall is nothing but a memory by now. The commander had just fallen asleep on his bed. Feliciano turns over, and there it is, this time, are rolls and rolls of small sausages sitting inside a plate on the table for himself. He walks over to his remote corner and hungrily swallowed down the brown meat. Even though it was meek and simple, this is one of the most delicious meals he had ever eaten ever since Feliciano become a prisoner under the German. He hummed in contentment. The white moon cast a radiant glow over the small crevice behind the window. He could see his own shadow in the reflected light.

As the last roll of sausage is diminished inside of Feliciano, he had stopped himself and looked down at his hands. A flashback gurgled inside his mind. A disruption. _These hands_, the white notebook pages being fold neatly into an envelope, the pen with the blue words. He had overlooked of the days where he could write freely and cleanses his emotions to his elder brother living in Madrid, Lovino and his other gentle stepbrother, Antonio; whom would send him toys and candies, but, they're gone now. The toys, candies, Lovino's scowl-filled words, intended for innocence children like Feliciano. Gone. Faded away. He bites his lips noiselessly to himself. There is nothing left of Feliciano. His pride, his humanity, his self-respect. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing… He opens his mouth, but slowly closes it. For a third time of the night, Feliciano shred another tear because he had lost his own voice.

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To be continue... :)


	5. Germany's Defeats in WWI

**_Chapter 5:_**

_Germany's Defeats in WWI is because of the Jews_

_At the conclusion of WWI, once the validation of Treaty of Versailles reached a verdict, at the time, during the conflict between Germany and the Allied Forces was officially comes to an end, the Germans absolutely excluded this 'truce' as it was bad reflection for the great republic of Germany. The people of German had anticipated that they, initially, came just a sting away to dominate the world war in 1918, also known as the 'Spring Offensive', but the plan was unsuccessful because of the ups and downs in the weaponries manufacturing at a grave instant of the invasive. This incident alone left the German's soldiers with an insufficient resource of defenses, and this incursion was indicted on the Jews; on how they had their backs turned against Germany during the entire war._

.

A soft sheet of warmth pressed against Feliciano's skin, it was like sunshine swathed over his body under the ocean floor. Feliciano's mind had evoked of the time where Grandpa Roma took him to the beach and he would have such a great time chatting up with the pretty girls there. The Italian boy smiled, needless to say, he was pleased with the softness on his person. His head slowly drifts off to further into the depth of his alluring slumber. The perfect picture of the beach is within his grasp. The sky, the ocean, the sand. Just perfect. This is peaceful. This is normal. This is Feliciano's everyday life. Then, the cool blue sky before him, suddenly, barraged with soaring German's airplanes and helicopters. The sapphire ocean beneath was festering in vessels of ships with loading cannon heads. It had reminded him of the plastic toys Antonio had sent him from Madrid, except now; there were breathing and moving human beings in those aircrafts and submarines. And, the people are all watching him, carefully taken in every steps and movements Feliciano makes…

Feliciano's brown eyes winged opened wide and clear, his mind slowly clasping in the profane stories of his life, his world, his truth. Needless to say, he was not thrilled with reality. The events of yesterday's come hurtling down into his head, forcing him to gulp down the cruel inhumane brutalities he have watched, by the German soldiers, the tainted burnt flesh of innocence people, of the Jews, and his shame, of himself. To the least of Feliciano's revelation, there it is, before his person… is Commander Bell-Mitch. And, currently, the oddest of all the things the Italian had witnessed, the commander is straightening out a blanket already sheltered over his lithe body. Feliciano's lips parts away, like pungent water crafting a crack in a pillar. Of such a story as this is unbelievable. This is more like an illusion created by a magician. Up in such a close proximate, the commander had looked abysmally young without his blonde hair neatly straitened under the belt of his hat. For that instant, his crystal blue eyes held such a trance that Feliciano had forgotten how they used to be frozen ice. His alabaster skin is not snow white, but in fact, it had many different warm pigments. His lips are not frosted grey, but a light shade of blushing pink.

"Thank you." Feliciano manage to mutter at such a scene. The commander did not reply.

And then, the stories from the outside world of Feliciano's bubble goes on. The red gas chamber, the public tortures, the hospital; continue on with their snippets of chapters within the confinement of their own myths and tales. The Little White House is done with its construction and is now open, like a butcher shop, with all of the meat soaked in many different gases coming in and out of the metal gate. As normal, Feliciano stood in one spot behind Commander Bell-Mitch and his red notebook with a blank look on his small face. As they walked and walked to the usual places, everything was typical and ordinary. The prisoners in chains, the prisoners on their dead end as they are of no use, the new prisoners arriving in trains, the prisoners standing in a place waiting for their time to come. To Feliciano's right, a new episode unfolds, he couldn't help but flinched in horror. Babies, randomly, were thrown in midair, only to be shot down by the red eyed man every time. He would laugh in that sickening voice of his at the act. The usual group of captives behind the red eyed man stood with their heads down, as if they were ashamed, not of the soldiers, but of themselves. Except for one. _The purple eyed prisoner_. Like a royalty, he refused to let his head cascade against the ground. And, yet… yet, there were two droplets of tears falling down on either side of his purple orbs. Then, everything fades away; the same thing as the end of a novel.

The night finally came, and Feliciano could not have been happier seeing such a thing. Ever. Like a circus performance, the acts immobilized themselves as the red curtain wrapped their wings around them. The lively color of red, the wretched prisoners, the German soldiers and their guns, was guard over by the darkness. Of such gloomy colors had brought the light back in Feliciano's eyes. For the usual of today, he hid in his little corner; stomach filled with food given by Commander Bell-Mitch, and alongside with him is his new companion, the fur blanket. Just a few hours, the commander sat in his seat and did the same thing over and over again, just like the many other days. He would write, eat, write, write, and then lastly dressed for the night to sleep. Few words rarely trickle out of his lips.

Even though it is blistering hot during the day, the night brought a current of freezing colds into the darkness. When everything dissolves into quiet silent, a current of tears carelessly falls out of Feliciano's brown eyes, easily, and ripples against the floor in a soundless lullaby. He rocked his body back and forth, luring himself into sleep. But he couldn't help it; the commotion on his face had kelp Feliciano awake for some time now. The white tears couldn't stop overflowing out of his exhausted scarlet eye's sockets.

A voice spoke out from the detached darkness right before Feliciano's blurred seeing eyes, "Why must you keep on shredding tears, Italian?"

"It is the only thing I can do for them, sir." The Italian answered honestly, as another drip left his eyes.

A huffed muse, "The cries of grief are for the weak."

"I know." Feliciano agreed.

"… Why do you not do anything about it then?" The voice suggested quietly.

Feliciano wanted to laugh at such irony, "You and I both know that I cannot, definitely."

"Who knows? This world is a strange place." The voice returned.

A cloudy silent passed by. "… Why must you kill…?" The Italian almost stuttered; he was afraid of the consequences, of his nonsense questions, of his dense defiance, of his simpleton ignorance. This time, a tear out of fear left his eyes, and into his lips. Feliciano could taste the bitter salt in the water droplet.

The Italian boy could feel the voice's tone stiffened at such a question. "You. You do not know what it is like, what my life is like, what the whole world is like; you are merely a stranger to a book you have never read before... I do not blame you though; this is just one in billions of other stories."

Feliciano could not hold it in anymore and decided to release a stream of words, "… The world is unfair... Why must the good die in vain, and the villain get to enjoy their suffering?" He bit his lips desperately, as the never ending trails of tears left his eyes and scattered all over his little, frail body. This is nothing like the fairy tales Feliciano had read in books. Where are the heroes? Why didn't the villains perish? Whatever happens to the 'happily ever after 'at the end?

The voice only responds with,_ "Lovino Fernandez Carriedo."_

Such simple words had seized Feliciano's entire attention. The tears frozen in their trail. His heart stop.

_How did he know his birth brother? _

… _No… Leave him alone… Don't take him away… _

"I know many things. All the words in the world are in my grasp just because. Are you scared?" The voice questioned ominously.

"Yes." Feliciano responded; his head tilted against the floor.

The voice continue with its portentous comment, "You know, I could have my men hunted him down and taken him to here, to Auschwitz, and had him enslaved like you… and your grandfather." What seemed like a long minute conceded by, and then ended with a simple, _"Feliciano."_

_I begged you, please._

"Why don't you, then, German?" Feliciano boldly challenged. The truth is, he was frightened out of his wit, his hands are frozen stiff, his heart beat utterly with madness, and his mind is an erratic wreck.

_Please._

In the very end, again, a tear manage to slide away, so easily, like Cinderella's crystal slipper. Feliciano blinked slowly. His eyelashes thinning with water.

Another minute passed by, the voice said, "I, myself, also wonder why."

"… I'm sleepy, sir..." Feliciano alleged, modestly. His brown eyes are then blacked out, fully given himself to the darkness.

Before the boy drifts off to slumber, the voice carefully whispers, "This, nonetheless, does not mean that he is not on my watch list, Italian."

* * *

_**Author's Note**_: In case if anybody wonders why Feliciano's brother, Lovino, had a different last name, please do refer to my other story, "The White Sketchbook", they were separated due to their mother's marriage to Antonio's father. Also, an interesting fact that I just recently discovered: Hitler's first love is a Jewish girl. I don't know what to say. Weird. This may or may not appear later on in this story. Anyway, as usual, to be continue.


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